The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [13]
Lawyering is a lot like football. In fact, Scott always figured his football career was the best pre-law curriculum the school offered; it certainly made the transition to the law an easy one for him. Whereas football is legalized violence, lawyering is violent legalities: lawyers use the law to pummel each other’s clients into submission. And just as football coaches want smart, mean, and tough players, rich clients want smart, mean, and tough lawyers. And they want to win. At all costs. Lie, cheat, steal, just win the goddamned case! In football and the law, winning isn’t everything; it’s the only thing. Winners reap the rewards; losers lose. A. Scott Fenney, Esq., leaned back in his chair, locked his hands behind his head, and surveyed his world here at the Ford Stevens law firm: he was a winner. And his reward was a perfect life. An absolutely perfect life.
He heard the phone ring at Sue’s desk. In seconds, she was standing in the door, purse in hand.
“Mr. Fenney, it’s the federal court.”
Scott shook his head. “I’ll call her back tomorrow.”
“It’s not the clerk. It’s the judge. Judge Buford.”
Scott snapped forward in his chair. “Judge Buford’s on the phone?”
Sue nodded.
“What the hell does he want with me?”
Sue shrugged, and Scott’s eyes fell to the single blinking light on his phone. On the other end of that line was Judge Samuel Buford, the senior judge on the federal bench for the Northern District of Texas. Appointed by Carter, he had presided over every civil rights case in Dallas for the last three decades. He was now something of an icon in conservative Dallas despite being a liberal Democrat. As a federal judge he made less than a second-year associate at Ford Stevens, but lawyers who made a million bucks a year still addressed him as “sir,” even outside his courtroom—and Scott had never spoken to him outside his courtroom. Scott took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and punched the blinking button.
“Judge Buford, sir, what a surprise.”
“Scott, how you doing, son?”
“Uh…fine, Judge. Just fine. Uh…how are you doing, sir?”
“Well, I’m not doing so good, Scott, that’s why I called you. I’ve got a big problem, and I need a top-notch lawyer to solve it. I figure you’re Tom Dibrell’s lawyer and—”
“Does this involve Tom?”
“Oh, no, Scott. It’s just that being Dibrell’s lawyer, you’re accustomed to high-profile work, and your appearances in my courtroom have always been excellent. But, most important, you have the right attitude. Listening to your speech at the bar luncheon today, I knew you were just the lawyer for the job. Scott, I can’t tell you how it made me feel, knowing there’s still someone who understands what being a lawyer is all about. So many young lawyers these days, seems all they care about is getting rich.”
“Yes, sir, it’s a crying shame, Judge.”
“You know, Scott, seeing you up there, everyone applauding you, made me recall that game of yours against Texas—damn, son, that was the best running I’ve ever seen. What did you get that day, a hundred fifty yards?”
“One hundred ninety-three, Judge. Three touchdowns. We still lost.”
“Hell of a game.”
“I didn’t know you were a big football fan, Judge.”
“I’m a Texan, born and raised, Scott, that makes me a football fan. Did you know I went to SMU?”
Scott chuckled. “Of course, I know, Judge. Every student at the law school knows about Samuel Buford—top grade point average in the history of the school, law review editor, clerk to Supreme Court Justice Douglas, Assistant Solicitor General under LBJ…”
“Whoa, son, you’re making me feel old.”
“Oh, sorry, sir.”
“You did pretty well yourself, Scott, top of your class.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“So, Scott, you up for helping out an old judge?”
“Always happy to help in any way, sir.”
Just then his mind’s peripheral vision caught a movement, like a linebacker moving in to nail him from his blind side.
“Tough job, Scott, requires a tough lawyer, a lawyer who doesn’t quit, who can handle pressure,